The X Factor live tour – review

Saturday 26 February 2011 19.05 EST
First published on Saturday 26 February 2011 19.05 EST

Well, there's no doubt that the machine works. The X Factor tour, robbed even of the dubious shocks and spontaneities of the televised competition, is as sleek and slick as an otter's pocket. And someone's doing something right to bring this much sugar-joy to so many people, even if the collective age of the – goodness, what, 100,000 wildly happy people – probably came to about the same as that of a night in Ronnie Scott's.

Goodness, they were young. It's an odd sight to watch a seven-year-old boy waving a big foam finger, in time to "She Bangs" or "Sex Up My Fire" or some such, towards a flaming stage full of illegally skimpy dancers while simultaneously rubbing his eyes with 10pm tiredness.

Is it a "nice" machine, though? Oh, I don't think so. First, it's in an O2 Dome, enough said. Second, there's no host: just giant side-screens flashing on between acts to boom out the X Factor music with ripe bombast, show clips from the worst auditions so we can laugh all over again, and ask for answers to trivia questions (at £1.50 per text plus usual mobile charges, naturally). The whole thing reeked of micro-management, of course: and they must be aware that, for all the labelling of pretty much all the standards as "soul" or "rhythm and blues" there was as much genuine soul or blues in this cattle-herd of a night – and I mean herding of the acts as well as the audience – as in the average piece of office equipment. Get up, I feel like a fax machine.

But I can't be too sneery because I am acutely aware I am so far from the target demographic. What then of the music? There was a lot of Cher Lloyd, now red of hair, stomping in trainers and tutu. She and Paije Richardson were popular openers, and have morphed (as have most) into true pros. Soon, it was time for Katie Waissel, and she impressed: coy, gentle, talented. As, hugely, did Rebecca Ferguson: my goodness that girl can sing, and actually did bring a little soul, along with some lovely black dresses, to proceedings. She will last, surely, longer than any of the others.

Despite their appearance sending the audience into meltdown, boyband One Direction were confusing, because, um, how do I put this, they can't all sing very well. These guys are being touted as the next big thing, redolent with talent and charm. On this appearence, they make mid-period Boyzone look like the Rat Pack. And nice home lass Mary Byrne, despite a reception of the type that wouldn't have disgraced Nuremberg, is, it has to be said, no Susan Boyle. Oh, the sentences you find yourself writing.

Part of the problem, oddly, is that I missed the catfighting, the tabloid exposés, the sulks and tantrums for which at least two of these acts are famous. It's weird, this phenomenon: after decades in which TV stole the stars of music hall and theatre, leaving those venues struggling, now the well-watched travails of the contestants are filling these O2 cathedrals of popcorn greed, vast crowds traipsing through the rain to a real venue to see them because they've been on the telly. Well, bits of them. The telly competition was devised to make money by showing weaknesses, tears, personalities. The tour is designed to make money by precisely obliterating these and all other traits. Call me cynical, but I've got nothing on Cowell's mob.

What must backstage here be like, I had earlier thought, given the infightings and jealousies of the competition, as they await their next solo turn – and I suddenly realised probably very dull: they'll be being forced into knitting or spelling bees or something, made to behave, for money, which is OK as it goes, but one aspect was unforgiveable. Not even final act Matt Cardle – the third genuinely impressive singer after Katie and Rebecca – actually had the X-factor enough to break with orders and introduce even the dancers, let alone the four-strong band who had all night produced both good and bad songs with phenomenal skill. The lowliest rackety pub band knows to do this, to an audience of five damp drunks.

But an unmemorable night? Oh no. The memory of sitting, still damp from the Dublin smirr and aching from emergency dental work, behind many pairs of giant pink flashing rabbit ears, and a zillion tweenies filming from their videophones with the squint-eyed concentration of Antonioni, while watching Wagner murder the I had thought unmurderable "Love Shack", will live a long day.